Fat and Hippies

So I just got back from Ithaca where I was at a "retreat". Well, a retreat in the scientific sense whereby you go to some remote local with some sort of "nature" (hence the Ithaca) and stay inside, in the dark, all day listening to people talk in excrutiating detail about excrutiatingly detailed topics. The retreat was on the molecular biophysics of signal transduction which means that the topics ranged from lipids to proteins in lipids to proteins modified by lipids to proteins that sense lipids to proteins that make lipids. And phase diagrams.

We did get to stay in the Statler hotel, however, which is staffed by gays and Mormons. They also make the best cheesecake in the world. Not so much with the pastries.

They did let us out for an afternoon which was exciting because I got to see my friend Amy who never comes to visit me in the City because she's a dirty hippy who lives in a co-op with a three-legged cat and tree-huggers with names like "Grasshopper" and will probably write something nasty in my comment box because I've insulted her fragile sensibility and collarbone. She did, however, take me and Deirdre on a hike around Six Mile Creek. "Oh, it's just a short walk," she says. Um, yeah. Anyway, for those of you who don't know Ithaca very well, it is all up-hill. I know this sounds physically impossible but trust me; I walked everywhere and never went down.

So, anyway, we're walking along, getting attacked by dragonflies (I hate bugs, but dragonflies are the worst! They are ugly and nasty and I haven't figured out what they are useful for yet), when Amy realizes she took us a different way than she was planning and we might have to do a "bit of climbing." Um, yeah. Suffice it to say we did manage to scale the cliff we needed to scale in order to get to the naked man. I actually don't know why this 60 year old man was lying naked on a rock, balls to the wind, reading The Nanny Diaries, nor do I know why he gave us a dirty look when we walked by his naked ass. It wasn't like by lying naked he'd laid claim to that rock or anything, like that guy who licks the car door handle in that Volkswagen commercial. I don't know, maybe he didn't want us looking at his dick. Whatever. It's Ithaca. On our way back to campus (up-hill, of course) we passed a guy in his boxers climbing through the second-floor window of his apartment, which of course makes perfect sense. I mean, where are you going to carry your keys if all you're wearing is your underwear?

I was happy to get back to the City, though, even if the boy made me start running this morning. Thirty minutes and eighteen leg cramps later I still felt like crap. Endorphins, my buttocks. But at least I've found a good use for my $100 pair of running shoes. Violently kicking my boyfriend in the ass.

Don't Hate the Player...

... hate boring, pedestrian "scripties"! Reality TV is where it's at! Still!

First, there's The Player, which premiered last night on the UPN. Now, you may ask, what is so original about twenty guys living in a house and trying to win a date with a hot woman via a series of eliminations? What makes The Player different? Well, these guys aren't your average reality TV show contestents; these guys are all Players! That is to say they are overly quaffed and overly muscled and overly full of themselves, some of them to the point where they could jump into a pool fully clothed and their hair wouldn't move. If you can get through the many various urban accents of Dawn (the prize) and the over used "Don't hate the player, hate the game" that is sure to be the next office cooler catch-phrase, check out The Player, if only for my fav playah, J.J., the gotta-be-gay wigger from the West Side (of Phoenix).

And speaking of gotta-be-gay, if you haven't checked out the new season of The Joe Schmo Show on Spike TV then you haven't lived. Instead of a Big Brother-like show, this time they're duping both a man and a woman into believing they're on a reality dating show called "Last Chance For Love" where there are many challenges and "Falcon Twists". The two hour finale is next week. Watch it. And while you're at it, rent the first season which is out on DVD now.

Lastly, since it appears as though every other cable network has a reality show featuring the life of a celebrity, why not A&E? Growing Up Gotti has got to be the biggest disappointment in celebrity reality television. First of all Victoria Gotti is not crazy, a la Anna Nicole; she's kinda just normal. If I wanted to see an ugly middle aged celebrity deal with their job, family and oversensitiveness to their own wacky existence I'd watch Family Business because at least that has titties. The one upside is she's got three hot teenaged boys, if by hot you mean over-tanned, over-gelled and overly bitchy Long Island man-whores. But if all you want to do is ogle underaged spoiled brats, save yourself the trouble of watching the show and check out Hotti Gotti where you can go for all your Gotti boy-toy screensavers. You know you want to....

So remember, just when you thought reality television was dead, the networks (all the networks) have managed to scrap the bottom of the barrel to bring you more of what you crave: man-sluts.

Except I'm serious about Joe Schmo 2. Check that shit out. Like now.

Oh Those Silly Californians...

According to a wonderful article in Slate this week, apparently most SUVs are banned on residential streets in California, due to the fact that they weigh more than 6 tons. Now, I'm torn by this. On the one hand, I hate government involvement in my life. On the other hand, I loathe SUVs, probably because I lived across the street from Kappa Kappa Gamma, where I believe ownership of one was manditory for membership (along with leather high heal knee-high boots which were oh so useful in the New Hampshire winter). And since I don't own one, and never plan to, the government isn't actually involving itself in my life with this one.

However, what I loathe even more than both of those things is people having their cake and eating it too. So, if SUV owners can register their SUVs as trucks, follow different quality regulations than pedestrian vehicles, get tax breaks if they use it for "work" and damage the road just as much as other trucks of that size, why should they be exempt from following traffic regulations other trucks have to? That is, they shouldn't get all the benefits and not have any of the inconveniences.

Of course this also means that those Hummers aren't allowed on the Brooklyn Bridge. I'd love to see that one enforced. No, really, I'd love to see that one enforced. Those fuckers should be inconvenienced. And frequently.

It's the Third of the Month...

... do you know where your moist towelette is?

So, I was in the shower this morning thinking about how long it's been since I've been celebrating this holiday in an official capacity. Believe it or not, the Third of the Month has been around for over six years! That's a lot of moist towelettes! And now, with the Third of the Month online, you can celebrate this noble holiday any day of the week. It's amazing how much we've grown.

I also realized that I've pretty much run out of ways to tell you to be good to yourself and love yourself. Which is fine, because I have other people out there to do it for me. Like NAAFA, the National Association for the Advancement of Fat Acceptance, but not fun fat like PUFAs. They want us to accept actual fat people for who they are and not look down on them, even the fat people who stand in the aisle taking pictures and using their fat ass to block your otherwise perfectly good view of a wedding ceremony. But that's great! Fat people are really discriminated against. Of course, like all activists, NAAFA is craaaazzzzy (and probably financially supported by McDonald's), denying a lot of the negative health consequences of being obese and stuff like that. But at least they're trying to feel good about themselves and isn't that what this day is about? Feeling good about yourself?

So whether you're feeling down and out or your life just couldn't be better, take a moment out of your day, just a moment, and think about all of your good qualities. Think about all of the people that love you. Think about how I love you. And I do. Love you. Each and every one of you crazy monkeys. And sometimes I think about how much I love each and every one of you when I think about how much I love myself. And when I'm thinking about loving myself I think about how one of you may be thinking of loving me at the same time. And then I get this warm fuzzy feeling that leaves me dizzy and panting with self-contentment. And that, my friends, is what this day is all about.

Oh, that, and plaid.

A Sad Day For DNA

Francis Crick has died at age 88. This leaves only James Watson left, to spout out cracked nonsensical ramblings such as his belief that obese people over-produce a hormone that makes you happy, as evidence by fat people being jolly. It is, however, a shame that Crick didn't live to see "The Double Helix The Musical" come to fruition...

A Moment Of Silence...

... for my dear beloved Fido.

He departed today from this earth at approximately 4pm EST, after a week-long struggle with ick. This morning it was touch and go but I had a sinking feeling in my stomach that today was his day. I fed him his breakfast but he would be having none of that. He spent most of the morning under a plant, lying on his side, breathing laboriously. Occassionally he would right himself but only for a moment or two. He'd lost most of his luscious shine and his eyes were puffy and swollen. By mid-afternoon the ick had taken over and my poor Fido was no more.

Sonya and Shobana provided the funeral dirge whilst I spake a brief but poignant eulogy, holding back my tears, as we slowly marched our way down the hallway to the men's room. I went in alone (considering Sonya and Shobana are both of the female persuassion and balked at the idea of entering that most holy of male places) and as I said my final goodbyes gave my dearest Fido a proper burial at sea, a burial he truly, deeply deserved.

Requiescat In Pacem, Fideus

Slipped Under The Radar

In the wake of the failure of the FMA to even get a real debate in the Senate, House Republicans have slipped passed one of the most asinine bills I've ever read, and it hasn't been getting a terrible lot of press. Afraid that a court will strike down the DOMA, they've decided to try to strip those courts of deciding the constitutionality of the DOMA with H.R. 3313, which states:

No court created by Act of Congress shall have any jurisdiction, and the Supreme Court shall have no appellate jurisdiction, to hear or decide any question pertaining to the interpretation of, or the validity under the Constitution of, section 1738C [the Defense of Marriage Act] or this section.

So let me get this straight, venerable Representatives: because your attempt to exclude homosexuals from marriage by enshrining it in the Constitution via an amendment failed miserably, you've decided to make it constitutional by not allowing anyone to question whether or not it is. Oh, and because of that little phrase "or this section", no one can question the constitutionality of not letting anyone question the constitutionality of the DOMA. Which is funny, of course, because according to that Constitution, specifically Article 3, Section 2, H.R. 3313 is, um, blatantly unconstitutional.

Way to go guys! This attempt to subvert the constitution and the will of the people, especially future generations, strikes me as, um, what should I call it? Oh, right, legislative activism. Now granted, it all doesn't really matter because this won't make it passed the Senate; I'm just amused at how desparate Congress is acting. Don't they have a war on terror to conduct and a middle eastern nation to rebuild?

Nothing To Say...

I just felt like blogging today but I've been working hard and haven't had much time to be interesting. Well, I did go to Beers of the World yesterday, an annual grad school picnic where I used to stay at for hours, get plastered and wake up drunk the next morning. Didn't this time. I must be getting old. I did get to drink Tecate in cans, however.

Oh, and I've been watching Joss Whedon's "Firefly," even though I swore I would boycott all things Whedon after that Angel finale debacle. It's actually surprisingly good. But I've figured out why it tanked (aside from the insto-death time slot of 8pm Fridays): the title sequence sucks, especially the crappy song. You can't have a successful TV show with a shitty opening. Well, maybe it was ok for "Friends," but still....

If This Is Substantiated...

... it's a big "fuck you" to everyone, especially Michael Moore (who apparently misrepresented and doctored a newspaper editorial for his film (thanks Andrew)). Of course, if it pans out it might mean that Bush will actually gain some more credibility and win the election, and I'm still not sure if I want that to happen.

Go IRT!

The Straphangers just rated the subways and what line do you think got the highest rating? Huh? Huh? Da 6. I love my subway line, even though it sometimes only runs in the downtown direction or not at all. But, to quote Madonna and every angsty emo/punk/pop band on the planet, nobody's perfect.

A Trip To The Movies...

Since it was a rainy, nasty day yesterday, we decided to catch an early showing of Spiderman, which was of course entertaining but didn't show enough shots of Tobey Maguire's cute little, nevermind. Anyway, like most movie experiences on E 86th St., someone managed to royally piss off the audience. (And if you don't know what I'm talking about, try going to that theater to watch the new Blade flick on opening night.)

Now, I'm not about to make any assumptions about the intelligence level of your average theater attendant, but you really don't need to be all that aggressive a thinker to know that letting a five-year-old into a movie theater with a helium balloon is not the greatest idea in the world. You see, as we (and others) were waiting patiently for our $10.25 movie to begin, said child (who managed to get passed the razor-sharp security) lost his grip on said balloon. Now this resulting in two distinct, yet related situations, namely a) a balloon bobbing up and down in front of the movie screen and b) an upset child who had lost said balloon and was making it known to the rest of the theater, loudly, and without much in the way of actual vocabulary.

But our tale of helium woes has just begun. About every ten minutes the balloon, which thankfully prefered to remain close to the ceiling, would make a cameo appearance on-screen. But lo! during a stirring speech by Dr. Octopus the balloon floated closer and closer to the ground, eliciting cries of "grab it! grab it!" from the crowd. A virtuous young lady, heeding those calls, leapt up from her front row seat and snatched the offending balloon and destroying it. She was greeted by much applause. Applause which, unfortunately, had it's own nasty side effects, namely setting off an applause chain reaction, not unlike Doc Ock's self-sustaining fusion reaction which used the unrealistically solid substance of tritium. This audience started clapping at everything! Aw, they kissed. Clap clap clap. Wow, Spiderman did something cool! Clap clap clap. Hey, great use of a classic Hollywood musical score! Clap clap clap.

Needless to say, it was an enjoyably campy romp through summer blockbuster spendor as seen in the Big City. Go see the movie; it's well worth it. And try to figure out how and why they appear to have taken a quick jaunt to Chi-Town...

It's Good To Be Me

It's a beautiful day in New York today, so I took a two hour lunch. I took some sushi and some Silver Bullet in a brown paper bag and sat outside in the park by Sotheby's (who's Teamsters are picketing, by the way), enjoying the sun and air. And I ain't got no one to answer to. Of course, it's days like today that make it clear I'm never graduating....

All Things Gay

I'm not entirely sure how fitting it is that the FMA was killed before it even got off the ground on Bastille Day. However, I do consider it interesting that Bill O'Reilly didn't mention it once (although I'm not sure when his show is taped), but did mention that residents of Palm Beach successfully sued to get a nativity placed next to the menorah under the heading "Traditionalist Victory" while also reaffirming his boycott of all things French and my dangling participles. I'd like someone to prove that his shampoo was made in France, because you know they all are. My dangling participles, however, are American. Although I think Jon Stewart best summed up the raving hysteria of Rick Sanatorum when he said that sodomy must be a very powerful thing since apparently penis and ass contact must form a super-genetalia that emits a massive culture-eroding ray, causing children to be born out of wedlock...

And speaking of Canada, the Yukon now has gay marriage, which begs the question "There are gay people in the Yukon?" Which of course begs an even bigger question; "There are people in the Yukon?"

Doll's Head "Bezoar"

Oh, yes, that does say doll's head bezoar, a tangled mass of indigestable material made up of a doll's head. You'd think that it would be obvious that a Barbie doll's head would be indigestable. And it was obvious to a 35-year-old man who last year ingested multiple doll's heads. On purpose. Most people won't be able to follow the link, so I've reprinted most of the article from the American Journal of Roentgenology. Pay special attention to the bold (my emphases).

A 35-year-old man presented with severe abdominal pain and distention but normal vital signs. An abdominal radiograph showed multiple rounded objects, some of which projected in the shape of a head with a pointed nose. Suspecting a case of "body packing", we questioned the patient as to whether he had ingested packets filled with illicit drugs for the purpose of smuggling. However, the patient stated that he had ingested multiple heads of a popular children's toy doll over the course of several days. He declared that swallowing dolls' heads was his habit for anal autoerotic gratification. The patient's hospital course was uneventful after surgery for mechanical small-bowel obstruction....

In this case of small-bowel obstruction resulting from craniocervical dissociation of a doll, common search patterns used to detect atlantooccipital distraction injury do not apply. Radiographically, dolls' heads do not show a clear basion–dens interval or posterior axial line. A denslike structure that has a cylindric convexity connects the doll's cranium to the doll's body in a hinge joint. The entire head of the doll, including nose and hair, are radiodense. Familiarity with the radiographic appearance of this famous American doll may help to differentiate the foreign bodies in the bowel of our patient from packages of illicit drugs ingested by body packers.

Motives for ingestion of foreign bodies vary greatly. To our knowledge, ingestion of dolls' heads for anal autoerotic gratification has not been described previously. Most ingested foreign bodies pass the small and large bowels without serious consequence, and patients seek medical help only if the passage is impeded at anatomic narrowings. Body packers smuggle illicit drugs (such as cocaine or heroin) in multiple ingested packages and may present as a toxicologic emergency with life-threatening symptoms caused by a leaking substance from a broken package. Rectal foreign bodies rarely come from ingestion but more commonly are the result of conscious insertion.

Radiographic detection of the characteristic nose and the unique features of the craniocervical junction of famous dolls may serve as a clue to identify the doll radiographically, even if located in the bowel of an individual. This case illustrates how icons of popular culture affect all aspects of life and can present emergently to the radiologist, who should keep in mind that human imagination may not follow clinical algorithms.

Seriously, whatever happened to good old-fashioned auto-erotic asphyxiation?

F*cking Kabbalah

It's the simplest recipe for success. You're a pop megastar with a twenty year career, something like 60 million albums sold, at least 50 hit singles and an athletic body that looks at least fifteen years younger than your age. You have millions of fans ready to shell out upwards of $300 a ticket for a concert. You've got billions of dollars of personal assets, access to the best choreographers, producers, promotors and videographers in the world and a stadium in every major city willing to let you play. All you have to do is play some old favorites, remix a few songs to spice things up and grind your breasts against half-naked male dancers and your fans will be screaming for more all night and into the wee hours of the morning.

Or you could do what Madonna did with her "Re-Invention Tour"...

I don't think there's any good place to begin, other than the beginning. Madonna (Esther) rises on stage in a toned-down version of her bustier days and does some yoga to "Vogue". We stayed seated because we were wating for her to warn us up. After a song that nobody seemed to recognize (which Madonna must have figured because she kept flashing the lyrics up on the screen) she stood in front of a mike stand and sang "Frozen" while a Chris Cunningham video played in the background. I hate that song but would have forced myself to get into it if I had known that it was just going to go down hill from there.

I'm not entirely sure when she lost me. It may have been her electric guitar rendition of "Material Girl". Or maybe it was when the wimple- and burkha-clad women came dancing with her on the catwalk during "American Life." Or possibly when she broke into a jazz version (a jazz version!) of "Deeper and Deeper." It's entirely possible that it was during her horribly choreographed rendition of "Die Another Day" which ended with her being strapped into an electric chair (an electric chair!) and having to endure a song from Evita, and not one of the popular songs you'd recognize immediately either (and believe me, if anyone should have recognized it, it should have been me).

It could have been at any one of those moments. But I know which moment got her heckled (by people other than us, who were doing our fair share of heckling). It was when she informed us that she was about to perform a "no-sitting down song" (and if you have to tell your audience not to sit, you're doing something wickedly wrong) and she broke into "Like a Prayer." I don't know what the hell she did to it but that song was more exciting when I used to listen to it on cassette in my old Buick Skylark with one broken speaker than being performed live by Madonna in a 20,000 seat stadium. Maybe it was the slower than natural tempo or the entirely un-ironic beating Sacred Heart and crucified Christ looming behind her. But my guess was that it led into a cover of a song that, and I quote the material girl verbatim, "was written 35 years ago but sounds like it could have been written today." Oh yes, my brothers and sisters, Madonna/Esther serenaded us with "Imagine" (yes, that "Imagine") while we were subjected to images of impoverished Palestinian children and starving Africans, ending in a commercial (a commercial!) for SpiritualityForKids.org. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the great Madonna was booed. Unfortunately not off-stage. Although I am curious to know if she appreciated the irony of singing the line "don't tell me to stop"...

I don't mean to be too negative, though. There were some highlights. We got to hear "Burning Up", a great version of "Crazy For You" and "Hanky-Panky", which unfortunately wasn't nearly as dirty as it should have been. But where was "Like a Virgin", "Ray of Light" and "Beautiful Stranger"? Where was the energy?

I'll tell you where the energy got into sucked to: Kabbalah.

Our evening was summed up best as we were forced to trek through the ghetto to get to the subway and were stopped by a homeless man asking for change. The boy replied: "Sorry, I just gave all my money to Madonna, but believe me it would've been better spent giving it all to you."

Paging Dr. Freud...

So I had a dream last night that I had to urinate very badly and in my dream I found a bathroom and pee'd for eight solid minutes. Does this dream mean anything significant? Maybe about my sex life? Or my mother? Or does it have to do with the fact that I woke up having to pee like a racehorse? Anyone? Anyone?

The Third of the Month, Explained

Some of my loyal readers have been wondering about the meaning of the Third of the Month. They ask me, Michael, what exactly is this Third of the Month thing? Why do you want every day to be the Third of the Month? Why not the sixth of the month? Or the twenty-third?

Well, loyal fans, it's quite simple to explain and not at all as interesting as you think it may be. All will not be revealed today because like all good mysteries the mystery of the Third of the Month is an enigma that, once de-enigmatized, is no longer an enigma.

Suffice it to say, The Third of the Month is, at it's heart, a euphamism; a euphamism for something that we all do and those of us who don't are usually lying about. But it is more, so much more, than that. It fills a void in our holiday-lite calendars. It gives us a well needed excuse to do something we shouldn't need an excuse to do, appreciate ourselves. All too often we get caught up in our hectic daily lives, too much so to cherish our own existences. As the old saying goes, I know I'm someone cause God don't make no dirt! (neglecting for the moment, that if God did make everything in the universe, and dirt being a part of the universe, that he did, in fact make dirt so maybe you really aren't somebody afterall you worthless piece of camel offal and I just got off-track, sorry) and we often forget that we are someone. The Third of the Month is a helpful reminder.

But the goal of this blog, it's mission if you will, is to make us appreciate ourselves each and every day; to get us to forget about what is so special about the Third of the Month because out of habit we treat each and every day as if it were.

But Michael, you say, why the Third of the Month? And exactly what does that date have to do with self-gratification? And why, for the love of God, does it have to involve plaid?

Well, kiddies, that's a story for another day....

Happy (Belated) Third of the Month!

Those of you who were with me this weekend know that I had very little time to celebrate the Third of the Month in typical TotM fashion. Oh don't get me wrong, I celebrated myself but it was far from typical. I rang in my Third of the Month already trashed, after a kick-ass over-indulgent meal at The River Cafe for the boy's birthday and our "anniversary". Touristy? Yup. Awesome view? You bet. But was the food worth it? Every blessed cent I spent.

Little did I know, however, that I would get to indulge in my wonderfulness so much more, later on, at the Pyramid. Hot eighties music, hot guys and friends buying me drinks. Who could ask for anything more? There was even high drama (stolen purse of a friend) that I remained blissfully unaware of as I danced the night away....

This weekend was also full of celebration goodies in the form of my most perfect Fourth of the Month. First, I got to see Riker's Island for the first time from the water. Then I got to see my darling Mets sweep the Evil Empire, even if the game was played under protest. And then, I celebrated the wonderfulness of myself and my country while watching the fireworks launched from the Statue of Liberty from a 33rd floor apartment in Battery Park City in soupful awe.

But that was then and this is now. Today is a beautiful day, so if you didn't take time out of your busy weekend to honor and love yourself, take time away from the election and the war and Michael Moore and worrying about falling out windows or having cars drive into your roof, if you haven't realized your full beauty, intelligence and sheer potential lately, if you haven't looked at yourself in the mirror and realized that out of all the improbabilities in the Universe that it chose you to be right here, right now and as awesome as you are and not some sea slug or garden weed or Mark Sommers, if you haven't done that yet, then get your ass home and celebrate yourself! A lot! Because gosh darn it, you deserve it!

Me, I'm going to go home early today to do laundry so I've got plenty of plaid tonight. Of course, not before I swing by the cafeteria and swipe some moist towellettes....

Don't Feed the Plants!

For my little sister's birthday/graduation present, I let her come visit me in the city, play Atari (because she always let me play Vice City on her PS2) and see Little Shop of Horrors. I knew that the cast was being overhauled but I didn't know what a surprise I was in for. Hunter Foster left to go to The Producers (I wish I'd known *that* before I saw it last month) and as Melissa and I were walking down the street with both caught a glimpse of the marquee.

"Little Shop of Horrors!" it said in large lettering. And, much to my pleasure (chagrin?) a sign almost as large underneath. I was flabbergasted. Flabbergasted. "Now Starring.... Joey Fatone!" Yup, kiddies, Seymour Krelborn was being played by none other than the fat one from *NSYNC. Needless to say, it made our night. Also needless to say, he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.

The Sky Is Falling... Again...

First it was my fault that the state of marriage in this country is crumbling, even though I'm not even allowed to get marriage. Then I was responsible for the Abu Gharib prison scandal (cuz ya know, all those soldiers got their ideas from looking at gay porn on the internet).

But this is the last straw! Now I'm being blamed for obesity. That's right, obesity. Lord Tebbit, former Conservative cabinet minister, had this to say:

"The root cause of this problem, like a number of others, is the break down in family life," he said, arguing that families "don't so often eat together" and that "wives are virtually pressurised into feeling they ought to go to work instead of looking after their children".

He said this decline in family life was due to the current government, which he accused of doing "everything it can to promote buggery"...

"We don’t only have an epidemic of obesity, we have a huge problem with AIDS. And the government's attitude is to do everything it can to promote buggery - knowing that those two are intimately connected."

At this point, Conservative MP Boris Johnson was keen to point out that "I don't think you can say gay marriage is the root cause of obesity".

So I'm now the reason that kids in England eat too much McDonald's.

But not only that, Florida state legislative candidate Ed Heeney told a Palm Beach County political meeting May that homosexuality has made it difficult for him to enjoy his pastime of billiards. His explanation: "(Y)ou have a situation where the lesbian community is buying restaurants and bars (and, presumably, removing the pool tables)."

Of course, I wonder when the last time that Ed was in a lesbian bar. Those dykes sure love their pool...

So now I'm going to keep a running total. We're responsible for the destruction of the family, the downfall of marriage, the abuse of children by Catholic priests, military torture scandals, RuPaul, obesity and the dirth of billiard tables in Florida. I will declare victory when I get publicly blamed for September 11th.

The Law of Snoozing

Riddle me this: Since I moved my apartment around, my alarm clock is on the opposite side of the room, far away from my bed. How then did I manage to snooze three times this morning? Somehow I had enough energy to get out of bed, trip over two pairs of shoes and my coffee table a full three times, but was unable to get into the shower. I continue to amaze even myself.

I'm Proud To Be Out...

... of town when the Gay Pride Parade is going on. I've never actually been, considering I find it garish, offensive and, oh, I hate parades (although the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island this weekend was, um, enjoyable). But the Pride Parade is my favorite parade for one reason and one reason only: It's the only major parade that doesn't run through my neighborhood, thereby fucking up traffic, public transportation and even walking for hours. I'm so happy that the Stonewall is in the Village and not under the Queensboro Bridge.

My Not-So-Terribly-Revealing Revelations On Advertising

Through a series of unrelated events, I ended up watching "Celebrity Poker Showdown" on Bravo last night for much longer than anyone should. Now I realize that Bravo is the gay-friendly network, but they somehow managed to turn poker (poker!) into the gayest subject ever. I won't get into it.

However, recently I've become acutely aware of television advertising. I suppose it started when I was watching a lot of wrestling and realized that I had no interest in Stacker II, Motorola motor oil, Lugz street shoes or video games that I probably wasn't the average WWE fan (who is, apparently, overweight, likes cars, is poorly dressed and has no social life). Likewise, during a commercial for a prodcut promising to lower my cholesterol and being hawked by George Hamilton, I wasn't the target audience of "Celebrity Poker" either. What struck me as interesting last night, however, was the fact that by the time I'd stopped watching wrestling on a regular basis, I was saving up money to by a Playstation. Which led me to ponder, do I want all the products advertised during the Daily Show because I'm the Daily Show's target demographic (which I am) or because these are the products I keep seeing because I watch the Daily Show? Like in this paper I read today, is membrane thickness modified by the lipids or by the embedded proteins? Or is it symbionic? Or synergistic? Or axiomatic?

I think I'm rambling. Anyway, as you can see, my revelation was, well, obvious and not very illuminating. Kind of like the advice of "The Gambler".

It's Not Against Any Religion...

It's been a couple months, but I finally have another pigeon on my balcony. This time, she didn't bother to take the time to build an elaborate nest underneath my air conditioner. No, this time the wily bitch nested in one of my planters. Oh yes. Now granted, I have a lot of plants on my balcony, azaleas, pansies, basil, mint, parsley, sage and rosemary (no thyme). And granted, I did leave this particular box empty, save soil, so it did make for a nice nest. Needless to say, I didn't call an exterminator this time; instead I took care of her myself. I drove her off with a broom, dumped the dirt and fried the egg of up for breakfast. (Ok, not that last part, but I thought about it.) Then I emptied my bladder all over the balcony because apparently they hate the smell of humans. Ok, I didn't do that either, but it would've served the bitch right.

Sigh, all this tough talk. Really, I felt bad for her. She looked so peaceful and mother-like. It was hard to kick her out and kill her baby. I might loose two or three whole winks of sleep over this. Ah, the curse of a conscience.


This post is in loving memory of the Contessa (2002-2002). Forgive me, Ramon.

Pop Culture Immersion

So last night I decided to immerse myself fully into middlebrow American pop culture by indulging in both a #1 pop-schlock bestseller and a made-for-TV movie based on a #1 pop-schlock bestseller, The Da Vinci Code and TNT's 'Salem's Lot.

Woo-wee! What a ride that one was. First, I finished The Da Vinci Code and I have to say that Dan Brown is no Umberto Eco, try as he might. A lot of the book was just flaunting random knowledge and useless linguistic observations which served the author's ego more than his unindoctrinated readers. Second, he lied. Well, he didn't really lie, as some people might have you think. But he definitely bent the truth to serve his story. The problem that I had was that he painted some of the historical origins of the Catholic Church as if it had been covering up some vast conspiracy. Unfortunately I knew most of everything he was saying because I, um, went to Catholic school and they told us how the early Church leaders got together and decided what should stay in the Bible and what shouldn't. For example. Of course, if I give him more credit than I ought to, I would say that all his manipulations and machinations were calculated and intentional and the reader was supposed to see through them as exactly that simply because "everyone loves a conspiracy." That would be, like, meta or something. Deep, man, deep.

My second foray into pop culture land was a TV mini-series starring Rob Lowe and about vampires. Ironically, it co-starred both Donald Sutherland and Rutger Hauer who also co-starred in another pop-culture vampire movie that spawned a legacy. Now, I could critique this till the cows come home because 'Salem's Lot is my favorite Stephen King novel and they just plain ruined the ending. Up until that it was very, very good. But why mess with greatness? And they were just plain inconsistent with the vampires. I did, however, realize that Stephen King has a message buried in his story: support of the FMA. Think about it: two fussy, foppish antique dealers, "partners" if you will, move into a small town. The town suspects something is funny about their relationship. Soon, small boys go missing. In no time they've converted the entire town to their evil ways. See, not only are gays responsible for the torture in Iraq, but for vampires too.

Desperation

Desperation is a sad thing. So last night, the boy and I joined Christy and Tim for a pleasant evening of Opera in the Park. They were performing Madama Butterfly, which was, at least according to the synopsis since I don't speak Italian, surprising similiar to Miss Saigon. Puccini is a hack. Anyway, between the four of us we split four bottles of wine (a pleasant pinot grigio, two Sicilian reds which could have been aged more and a nice South African pinotage, which at that point in the evening went down like water). We also had some lovely cured meat sandwiches and tasty goat milk brie on wee toasts. Needless to say by the end of the evening I was pleasantly toasted as well, and I found myself home early, buzzed and not ready to go to bed.

Here is where desperation comes in. Since I quit smoking in April, I'd had a couple of packs of cigarettes left over in a drawer in my closet. Whenever I was feeling stressed or buzzed or the boy wanted one, I sneak one out. Needless to say, I was jonesin'. Well, kiddies, much to my chagrin I discovered that I'd successfully sneaked every single cigarette, including my cloves, out of my apartment. Three empty packs of fags, and not a single smoke. So I started digging. Almost immediately I found a three year old pack of unfiltered Camels with about six cigarettes left. I'm not that desperate, I told myself, and I kept digging. It's amazing what you find at the bottom of forgotten drawers. I found a faded admission ticket to the Aquarium of the Americas in New Orleans, dated March 1999. While I do remember being in New Orleans for spring break my senior year of college, I have absolutely no recollection of going to an aquarium. I also found $5.50 in penny rolls, which I put with the rest of my change. I actually have enough change to pay off all of our war debt, but I have yet to do anything with it. I've been planning on taking it to Commerce Bank which has free change machines, but you really have to make a planned trip. I can't just put it all in my bag and pop round after work because I'd probably give myself another hernia. I guess I could take it in shifts but that requires much more forethought and energy expenditure than I'm willing to invest. I figure, I'll do something with it when it's finally time to move. Or, I guess I could have taken some of it and walked the block and half to a bodega to buy a pack of smokes.

But since this post is about desperation, I of course ended up smoking a three year old unfiltered Camel and being none too happy about it, especially since you really can't tell how far you're supposed to smoke since there's no handy filter to help you gauge in the dark.

Back In Business!

Finally. Took us frickin' long enough...

It's The Third Of The Month...

Do you know where your next paycheck is coming from? Fortunately I do and unfortunately that's the only thing going well this week. Currently I'm typing this on the ground, which is ergonomically evil; I hope I don't damage my wrists to much today since it's quite possible the worst day to do so. The reason I'm lying on the ground is because, while we are in our new lab space, there are only two network connections and the Unix box that is running one of them is acting wack-ass. The other one is in a room that does not yet have what one might call a table. And I'm starving because I've had nothing but fruit to eat all day since the boy somehow convinced me to go on some cracked crash-diet with him and his sister.

This sitch has hugs and puppies at the end of the tunnel, though. I have window now. And a new computer for analysis. And I got to label shit today. And what, if anything, is this day about but than to look on the bright side of things?

So, while I'm looking out my window with no shades as the sun strikes me blind, I will only thing of how good I am, how smart I am, and how wonderful my cabbage soup is going to be tonight.

It's a shame I forgot to wear plaid today.

Murphy's Law

... never ceases to amaze me. I get my experiment up and running and what do I get in my inbox? Take a wild guess kiddies! The move go ahead. They've decended. I won't be able to blog for about a week while we escape the bowels of 73rd St. Wish me luck.

Goodnight America, and all the ships at sea...

Perpetual Anticipation...

... is rather an unsettling thing. Operation Fuck With My Experiments is in full swing. They've brought in the big guns. There are now two trucks perched outside, the movers ready to decend at any second. In fact, word on the street says that they could move us as early as this afternoon. Does this mean I'm packing? No, because if they don't move us I'll have wasted another whole fucking day and I'm not going to waste another whole fucking day reading marriagedebate.com again.

But Murphy says that if my experiment goes well, smack in the middle I'm going to have to start breaking down my rig. And if that happens, Murphy can duil mo slat....

From the "Irony Is the Spice of Life" Files:

Today's Center for Neuronal Signaling lecture:

Alcohol and Brain Function: Small Molecule, Complex Actions
R. Ardon Harris, Ph.D.
Director
Waggoner Center for Alcohol and Addiction Research
University of Texas at Austin

Wine and cheese reception to follow in Griffis Faculty Club.

To Move or Not To Move...

So I got to work today and the moving van was poised and ready outside of our building. What's this? I thought, perchance that we might move today? I asked what they were doing there. They replied, waiting. Waiting for what? I thought. Should I do an experiment today? Should I start packing? And what, if any, information has come from the Powers That Be? There was but one directive, from the chair to the peons here in the bowels of hell: the movers are not to move us until we are ready to be received in the new space. Until that time, upon which we will receive notice from the PTBs, we are to "resist all attempts" of the movers to start packing us down.

Resist all attempts? What are we, the Alamo? It is as if they are the enemy, poised to attack and upon the charge signal we will have ten minutes to evacuate the premises or risk being packed into a box ourselves. I'm just hoping that whatever day they actually decide to move has really nice weather cuz I'm going to the beach...

From the "Irony Is the Spice of Life" Files:

Today's Center for Neuronal Signaling lecture:

Alcohol and Brain Function: Small Molecule, Complex Actions
R. Ardon Harris, Ph.D.
Director
Waggoner Center for Alcohol and Addiction Research
University of Texas at Austin

Wine and cheese reception to follow in Griffis Faculty Club.

When Ya Got It...

I called up Time Warner to take away my Starz! and add a DVR. I figured this would cost me nominally more a month (Starz! was 7 bucks, the DVR was 9), but probably worth it in the long-run, considering I'm thinking of dropping Netflix soon. I ended up managing to get my DVR, keep Starz!, all my On-Demands, and pay $7 LESS than I'm paying now. How, you ask me? Jedi mind trick. "This is not the rate you want to charge me."

My services are available upon request.

To Move or Not To Move...

My lab has been in a temporary, window-less hell-hole for over a year now, while our previous hell-hole was being turned into the Taj Mahal, complete with marble floors, mahogany walls and wavy, modern ceilings. We have been told, repeatedly, that we would be moving very soon. Our first offical date was in March. Remember March? Three months ago? Have you heard me blog about my new palatial space? No? Right...

Our last official date was May 17. Maybe I was too wrapped up with the fags getting married and missed the move? Nope. If it did happen on May 17, everyone else missed it too. But now nobody's saying anything official. In fact, nobody's saying anything it all. You see there are known knowns and there are known unknowns. For instance, we know that we know that we have to move before June 1. That is a known known. We know that we have absolutely no idea exactly when we are going to move. That is a known unknown. But there are also unknown unknowns. These I cannot speculate on.

All I do know is that we have no idea when we're going to be moving so I've been working under immense tension. I'm ready to receive a phone call any second now informing me that the movers are on their way and I better be ready to go right now. Which means I'd have to drop everything and shut my rig down immediately. But I can't preemptively stop experimenting because I theoretically have a good week left of work in me, depending on whenever the hell the Powers That Be decide it's time to go.

Life is becoming increasingly surreal. I'm half expecting to wake up one morning next to Suzanne Plachette and realize it's all just been a bad dream.

Your Beauty Effulgent...

Well did they all die or not? The series finale of Angel last night has given me pause. I don't know what to think. In some ways it was a perfect coda; we got to see a glimpse of all the characters' internal desires as they spend their 'last day' before the final battle. And yet they go into battle alone. Angel signs away his Shanshu but for what? And where were the Powers That Be? Don't get me wrong, it was a better ending than Buffy, but it didn't come full circle. The mission of the show seemed to have been lost somewhere along the way. Whereas Buffy's journey ended with Willow, Xander and Giles right their with her, Angel doesn't have Doyle or Cordelia and Wesley is dead by the time the shit truly hits the fan. It didn't ring as true as it could have.

What truly bothered me was that the Senior Partners' plans seem to have become entirely inconsistent. They spent five years meticulously trying to get Angel to turn evil yet keep him alive and then he ticks them off a bit so they crush him? Dammit, I wanted an apocalypse. They probably just didn't have the budget.

At least Spike got his recognition as a poet, even if he's still bloody awful.

And once again I am painfully reminded how much I miss Cordelia.

Well, Joss, you didn't piss me off entirely so I might give you another chance someday. It's been a good 8 years, and I'll definitely miss your world.

All Things Sullivan

he boy and I had an amazing opportunity to see Andrew Sullivan read from his book and speak about marriage. What was so amazing about it was that it was on the day that same-sex couples were allowed to wed in Massachusetts. Some of what he said was political, some of what he said was personal but all of it was spot-on correct. I later got to see him on MSNBC "debating" (and I use this term loosely) Bishop Paul Morton, a black Baptist from Louisiana. Andrew was, of course, engaging, witty and intelligent and the poor Bishop could only state and re-state that God told him that gay marriage is wrong. Of course what pissed me off the most were his vitriolic statements of outrage that the gay community would use comparisons of black civil rights for what he sees as an abomination. I'm outraged that he is outraged and values my civil liberties less than his. And of course, when Andrew respectfully pointed out that many prominent black leaders, including John Lewis and Coretta "God-forbid-we-say-anything-bad-about-her-because-she-was-married-to-a-saint" Scott King, are in full support of equal marriage rights for all, the only thing the poor misguided bishop could say was, well, that God told him it was wrong. Way to enter into a debate about civil marriage there, Paulie...

I'm becoming more and more convinced each day that the reason that equal marriage rights opponents can't come up with any rational and articulate way to state their opposition is because there is no rational or articulate opposition.

The Sky Is Falling!

Today we are witnessing the fall-out of the "Fiat Heard 'Round the World." Today the queers are gettin' hitched! I don't know about you, but when I woke up this morning I could feel it; husbands and wives looking at each other over the kitchen table and sighing in despair. Their marriages mean nothing anymore. They might as well just throw their rings down the sink. I'm sure that already, before the first homogomous vows were taken, straights were lining up to get their divorces. Four thousand children have already been abandoned to the streets. And if you listen carefully enough you can actually hear the very fabric of society unraveling. In fact, on my way to work today I saw a man crying on the sidewalk because this morning his wife decided to go find herself a woman to marry instead now that homosex is the new black.

Pretty soon our children will be left to fend for themselves, while their parents sodomize each other freely and legally. They will lament "The Before Time" when family meant moral and religiously upstanding heterosexual couples with 2.4 children and when the dog wasn't married to a dozen polyamorous heathens, a time when children were conceived by a means called "vaginal intercourse" where a man inserted his penis into a woman (can you imagine! A woman!) rather than be created in a test tube by a team of queer geneticists bent on stamping out heterosexuality completely.

If we allow this to continue, the terrorists have already won.

Post-Meta-Existentialism for the 21st Century

The existential poetry of Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld set to chamber music. I love this man more and more each day.

Berg Video

So I haven't actually watched this video yet, because I'm not entirely sure that I can stomach it. But a few people have raised concerns of media bias (of course!) insomuch that if the mass media can graphically publicize the atrocities committed by U.S. soldiers, why not Iraqi dissidents? I agree. This isn't the same situation as not airing close-up images of people falling from the World Trade Center. No, for better or worse, we're stuck in the middle of a big ol' messy war and while the actions of Zarqawi in no way justify Abu Ghraib, it's a good idea to put things into perspective. We still have a few motes to clear out of our eyes but the beheading of an innocent civilian is not the fault of undertrained, misguided soldiers but a heinous crime of pure hatred.

And speaking of heinous crimes, Angel's second to last episode is tonight and it would be a heinous crime if Joss disappoints me yet again...

Note to the Criminal Element:

I would make a horrible eyewitness. I don't know how some people do it. They can get mugged in a dark alley, without there glasses, and be like, "Yeah, I saw him, he was 5'9", 167 lbs, size 11 shoe, auborn hair, hazel eyes and was wearing a Gap sweatshirt which a small hole under the arm and Tag Heuer knock-off he probably bought in Chinatown. Oh, and from his accent I'd say he was from Williamsburg but probably went to highschool in Manhattan."

Me, I'd be more like the woman I heard on the news this morning who was attacked in Central Park. Apparently her attacker was an Hispanic male, no height, 150-200 lbs and wearing a soccer jersey. Um, that narrows it down, thank you very much. You might as well just arrest all of the Barrio and half of Inwood. It's like saying you were attacked by a woman on the Upper East Side wearing Burberry plaid and carrying a Louis Vuitton hand-bag.

Of course, I probably wouldn't have even noticed the soccer jersey...

Hung Like a Horse

So I've been listening to Launchcast radio because it's free and supposedly customized to play things that it thinks you want to hear. Well apparently it thinks I want to hear William Hung of American Idol infamy sing "Shake Your Bon Bon" because that's what I just heard. It's off his new album, Inspiration, which contains some great classics as "I Believe I Can Fly", "Circle of Life" and of course "She Bangs." It also has "inspirational thoughts". I've now put him on heavy rotation because it so God-awful bad that it's mmm-mmm good. I also had the pleasure of hearing his private voicemail due to a friend of a friend in the business. Everything about this man rocks my world. I might have to buy the CD. Maybe Launchcast is smarter than I thought.

Van Hottie

Ok, so pretty much Hugh Jackman's Van Helsing has absolutely no redeeming qualities, aside from Kate Beckinsale's heaving breasts and 18th century stretch-pants. Oh, and of course Jackman gets naked and bruised at the end. Otherwise it was overacted and over-CGI'd. And we never really get to know who Van Helsing the man really is. Or what the actual plot might be. Or what the Vatican was doing with her own version of Q....

I am, however, waiting patiently for the sequel, because I'm dying to figure out the answers to all the intriguing loose ends they left...

I Got 99 Problems...

... and Angel is one of them. I swear Mutant Enemy has not only systematically mutilated every character on Angel but now they've attacked the Buffyverse as well. We've got two episodes left. Count them; one, two. And what do we get? Angel and Spike in a teenaged pissing contest over an ex-girlfriend. What about the apocalypse? Or the grand plans of Wolfram and Hart? Or that uber-demon who's inhabited the body of Amy Acker and given her the ability to act decently? No, instead we get a bad buddy-movie chase scene in a cheesy sound-staged Italian street, not to mention the dolce vita, devil-may-care Italian CEO and mafia demons wearing masks that Mutant Enemy apparently pulled out of the overstock bin in a Halloween store. And this "the apocalypse is happening all around you" crap-ola is, um, crap-ola. This show stopped being a metaphor somewhere around Pylea and not only is this plotline over-done shyte, it's over-done shyte from the second season of this very television show! Even the Dru and Darla cameo wasn't worth it. The one shining moment was, believe it or not, Andrew, who was wearing a Strong Bad t-shirt. Seriously, it's no wonder Sarah Michelle Gellar wants nothing to do with this any more. I swear if the next two episodes don't have me crapping my pants with awe, I'm officially declaring Joss Whedon a hack and will refuse to watch anything he makes ever again.

On a more positive note, Shorties Watching Shorties on Comedy Central is surprising good. The concept is simple (animated shorts set to audio clips of stand-up comics) but the execution is pretty solid. Patrice O'Neal and Nick DiPaolo need to find their voice as overly precocious infants, an over-used trope that doesn't quite resonate and I don't think ever will. But the shorts are frickin' hysterical, although I think it helps if you have an encyclopedic knowledge of stand-up.

Back in Business!

Well, after the lab was Sasserized and I was without internet access for a whole day and a half, it appears as everything is up and running. Wah-hoo!

Saw 20th Century last night with Alec Baldwin and Anne Heche. It was, um, entertaining. I wouldn't say that Baldwin is a comic genius, but be overacted the part to a tee. As did Heche. And there was unintentional Christ, The Passion of the irony. ("I can't find the second act. But I have it memorized. The Christus; He dies.")

I also didn't win a prize at DuVigneaud. I think it was the glitter.

Happy Third of the Month!

Well, I don't know about you guys, but my Third of the Month has been awesome so far! Totally gnarly, dudes and dudettes! First of all, I got to do arts and crafts today making my poster. I got to use posterboard and scissors and glue sticks. And I even used a trace amount of glitter to make a certain someone (and you know who you are) happy. I also got to try a new food today (borek) and I'm wearing plaid underwear so things just keep getting better and better.

Now we all know that today is the day we celebrate ourselves, because we're beautiful, intelligent, wonderful people. So in the spirit of self-gratification I'm going to officially plug HBO's Deadwood and warn you off of FX's Nip/Tuck. The former has more swears and better acting and dialogue. The latter has more lesbian sex and plastic surgery. You be the judge.

But anywho, I'm much too tired to attempt to be witty or anything today so I'll just leave you with this thought: sticks and stones may break my bones but moist towelettes make for good hygeine.

Love yourself. You deserve it.

More Shameless Self-Promotion

I am now, officially, one hundred percent published. I guess this means I should start thinking about graduating or something.

One Fish, Two Fish...

... three fish, six fish, a frickin' dozen fish. I just don't understand it. I've spent the better half of the last month trying to keep my fish from dying. Now I can't keep them from multiplying. Damn live breeders.

Jésus, The Passion of the, Book II

...When we last left our heroes they were trying to get an outdoor table at lunchtime on a Saturday at Stephanie's on Newberry St. while waiting for Monanna to arrive from Portsmouth.

Which was fine. There was a killer wait so it gave us time to a) wait for Monanna, b) make fun of all the poorly dressed Bostonians, and c) make up fun nicknames for Mon, like "Little Miss Slut-Slut" and "Saltfucker", which of course we planned to use liberally.

As it was, by the time our table was ready (an hour later), Little Miss Slut-Slut hadn't showed up yet. The hostess graciously sat us at a two-top she'd turned into a three-top. Shortly after we ordered and were drinking our sangria, who strolls up but Wham Bam Dawson. And who is in tow? A really buff (but kind of short) Bolivian wearing a soccer jersey and grinning madly. Oh joy. She brought the sailor along. Ahoy, thar, Jésus! Blimey, we ain't got you a seat!

The hostess comes running over. To give us an extra chair, perhaps? Nah, she just politely (and by politely I mean as if I'd just shat on her foot) said that we weren't even sitting at a three-top; she'd merely done us a favor since we'd waited so long by turning the two into a three and there was no way she could make it a four. And then she walked away! Did she offer us a solution? Another table perhaps? A two-top for LMSS and the Brazilian? Nope. She just walked away.

So Mon took the chair and the sailor sat on the ground. Our waiter came up to us, completely nonplussed. Ahoy! You maties want to order some chow? There was no offer of a seat. Which was just as well because it was easier to ignore the sailor on the ground while we pumped Little Miss Slut-Slut for, um, information. Turns out, she couldn't find her friend at the Hong Kong so she left and stumbled upon another bar where she met the Mexican sailor (in full uniform) and some cops. Long story short (too late) she leaves her purse at one of the bars and by the end of the night decided she was tired and wanted to go to bed. When Jésus offers to take her home she is completely incapable of remembering where she lives and insists she needs somewhere to sleep. Obviously the answer is Portsmouth, New Hampshire. So away they went!

I graciously buy the sailor lunch (he only orders clam chowder and an iced tea) because he got my Monanna home relatively safe. After lunch he returns the favor by offering to drive us to Cambridge. He follows us into Mon's apartment where he gets to meet her gay linguist roommate, Tim (ahoy Tim!). Tim informs us that the bar called him (of all people) to tell him that someone named Monanna, who they hope he knows, left her purse. Jésus graciously offers to take us there. Now, Tim could have, but Jésus is being nice. All things beginning to be sorted, Jésus asks what we are all doing today. Making dinner and going out is our response. He has, at this point, say 5pm, made no move to go back to Portsmouth. He must have nothing to do. A few awkward moments later, Wham Bam Dawson invites him for dinner. Ahoy, he accepts! Apparently this man has nothing else in the world to do.

Now, at this point, I'm not quite sure if this little Ecuadorian knows what he's getting himself into. We are making dinner, but we aren't a bunch of guys hanging around grilling steaks. No, we had artichokes, and pureed leeks and caulifluor, and Tim was able to pull of an impromptu cheese platter with no less than eight cheeses although he sent us out to the store because we absolutely positively had to have a hard Basque sheep's milk cheese or the platter would be ruined. Ruined! Oh, and Larry insisted on making strawberry rhubarb glaze for the ice cream. Jésus slept until it was dinnertime, which was great because we could mock him openly. Not that we weren't mocking him (and Mon, of course) openly when he was around. It's just a felt a little better about doing it behind his back.

Meanwhile two more guest arrived, Andy the gay biologist and Bob the gay literary theorist. Jésus emerged from the living room (ahoy!) to a bunch of queers munching on cheese and looking at soft-core porn. Well, actually we were looking at the website of the club we were going to, Manray, and I was trying to find men for Andy (who's been a bit hard-up lately, if you ask me). We also passed the time by mocking Rainbow Frite, our supposed "hostess" for the evening, who looked like the hideous offspring of Divine and a Care Bear. Shortly thereafter, Mon asked us if we were going to change.

At that moment a flicker of light sparked behind Jésus's dim, dim eyes. Gay men. Clubbing. Rainbow Frite. "Um, are you guys going to dress up in women's clothes?" Bob got very indignant. But it was apparently a valid question because, um, Jésus was making no move for the door. That is, um, he was going clubbing with us.

The club was ok. There were no drugs, which bothered Tim an awful lot, and there was a horrible drag show and it was ostensibly not gay night. I drank a lot of overpriced, watered down drinks from over-skinny over-tattooed 19 year old heroin addict bartenders who refused to flirt with me even though I was stylin'. By the end of the night I think we were all actively ignoring the Columbian lap-dog that had been following Little Miss Slut-Slut around all day. Apparently he had no where better to be than hanging out with a bunch of gay men in a cheesy 19-and-over club in Cambridge. He watched the entire drag show with utter fascination.

I won't actively bitch about having to sleep on the floor because Jésus was still around but, um, I had to sleep on the motherf*cking floor because that goddamn sailor was around! But, the killer was the next morning. We're all sitting around, having coffee and getting ready to go to Sunday brunch and I'm praying, just praying that Jésus will finally leave. In the middle of a discussion on terror activity in the Sudan, another one of those rare flicker moments happens and Jésus leaps up (ahoy!)

He ran to his phone to make a call. You see, apparently Jésus had some sort of authority role in the military and one of his 18yo underlings was waiting in the Manchester airport because he was having flight issues getting back to base. He was waiting for Jésus, as his commanding officer, to come to the airport and sort everything out. They were supposed to meet Saturday afternoon. The same afternoon he'd been following us around aimlessly without a care in the world. Get that, kiddies? He spent twenty-four hours lounging around with a bunch of queers doing nothing particularly exciting without anywhere else to be. Except, um, HE HAD SOMEWHERE ELSE TO BE! Somewhere very IMPORTANT. Some poor kid had to sleep in an airport because Jésus (ahoy) wanted to give his little sailor some more attention. He spent an entire day annoying the ever-living shit out of me, and HE HAD SOMEWHERE TO BE! Now, we've all thought with our dicks before but this one, this one takes the cake. It's no wonder he's currently in a custody battle with his ex.

But perhaps I'm griping a bit too much. He did provide me with much entertainment. Not as much as Wham Bam Dawson, perhaps, but enough. As it is, Little Miss Slut-Slut is visiting me this weekend and my boyfriend is away. So if you know any sailors I could hook-up with so she's forced to sleep on the floor, you can pass them along. Karma will thank you.

THE END

P.S. I love you Monanna. You're my number one monkey...

Happy Earth Day!

Well, here in New York, it's a beautiful day for Earth Day; it's warm, balmy but with a nice breeze. Perfect day to poison pigeons in the park, which to me is the best way to celebrate the Earth. The faster we drive those hideous flying rodents to extinction the easier I can sleep at night.

But if you don't find poisoning pigeons particularly pleasant or pacifying, I suggest you indulge in the latest culinary craze: offal. Yes, what better way (um, besides wanton distruction of rock doves) to celebrate the Earth and all it has to offer than by eating, um, all it has to offer...

But if that doesn't pique your interest, and you don't like picking up hypos on the beach with your bare hands, you can merely passively relish in the fact that the Earth is actually getting cleaner and cleaner. Now, this doesn't mean we have to stop trying to do better, but looking at the numbers is reassuring. And we don't have to irrationally worry about our environment. It just means that, while we should always remember Mother Earth, we also need to keep in mind what everyone knows and no one wants to admit, Kyoto just sucked.

It's 4/20...

... do you know where your bong is? Of course you don't. It's National Smoke Weed Day and you've been stoned to bejesus since you woke up so you probably can't even find your dick right about now. You've spent the day pouring over old dog-earred copies of High Times and trying to figure out what's so special about 420 (answer, it doesn't fucking matter). You'd listen to Sublime but your only CD is stuck in your burnt out iMac, so you probably had to settle for Phish or some Dead on cassette. You thought you'd get creative for lunch, which is how you ended up with the ham, broccoli and Easy Mac sandwich. And you still can't find your bong.

Anyway, you're not alone and that's not a bad thing. Neither is that short-term memory loss. Turns out scientists (God bless them) are constantly finding wonderful new and improved uses for cannabis, some of them involving, um, memory loss.

Jésus, The Passion of the, Book I

(Note: All names have been changed to protect the guilty, and really we are all guilty of something.)

It all started out like a normal weekend; a long bus ride to Boston. The boy and I were staying at the Westin in Copley on Friday and were planning to stay with Monanna on Saturday. We met up with Mon at a friend's for meat-on-sticks, awkward sexual tension between Mon and Francis and the Sox game. Then we met up with Andy at a place called The Purple Shamrock, the coochiest frat bar I've ever been to, filled with lite-n-spikeys, hemp necklaces and the absolute worst wedding band I'd ever heard.

Monanna and Andy left to meet up with another friend and Larry and I went back to the hotel for some, um, pinochle. Our plan was for Monanna to pick us up at the Starbucks on Boyleston at noon the next day. After a relaxing evening of, um, pinochle, we hauled our luggage to the 'Bucks and waited, a little worried because I couldn't get ahold of Mon on her cell. Knowing her all too well, I figured she'd passed out from partying and had overslept. Reliable she is but on time she is not. No matter, I had my caramel macchiato and a good view of a bunch of overweight men trying to build the finish line for the marathon.

Sometime after noon a 'Bucks employee comes up to us and says, "Excuse me, are either one of you Larry or Michael?"

"Why, yes," we say, "We both are." He hands us a phone. Apparently we have a call. At Starbucks. I'm beginning to feel like a celebrity.

Larry fields the call. It's, of course, Monanna. She left her cell phone and purse at a bar last night and didn't have my phone number. Or her money or ID. She'll be about an hour. She wants us to meet her on Newberry Street at Stephanie's for lunch. The Starbucks employee is hovering over us as if the second we get done with the call we're going to bolt down the street with his phone.

Larry gives the phone back and looks at me intently. "I really wish you'd talked to her." I ask why. "Well," he replies, "Apparently she woke up this morning in a hotel room. With a sailor. In Portsmouth." Beat. "New Hampshire." My first thought was not, 'Oh my God,' or 'How did this happen?' or 'What was she thinking?' No, my first thought was, 'well, this one's new.'

I immediately call Andy: "Um, what did you do last night after we left?"
"Monanna lost her earring so we spent a half hour last night looking for it, then I went home. Why?"
"Apparently that's not all she lost."
"Excuse me?"
"So where did she go after you left?"
"The Hong Kong, I think."
"By herself?"
"Yes, why?"
"So you have no idea how she ended up in a hotel room with a sailor in New Hampshire?"
Pause. "Excuse me?"

Larry and I are now left to ponder a few things: Exactly how did Mon (aka Wham Bam Dawson) end up in Portsmouth? If she had no purse, how was she getting back? And how did she think she'd get to us in an hour? And when she did, would she have transportation to get us to Cambridge or were we going to have to drag all of our luggage through the T? And how did the Starbucks employee know exactly who we were?

However, I am quickly distracted from our predicament by the sight a few tables over. I point it out to Larry, who cries a bit too loudly, "Holy shit." A sixty year old bald queen is sitting at one of the tables. He is wearing brown loafers, checkered golf pants, a navy mock turtleneck and Andy Warhol glasses. This, in and of itself, is not a "holy shit" moment. However, sitting on the chair next to him is a My Buddy doll, wearing brown loafers, checkered golf pants, a navy mock turtleneck and Andy Warchol glasses. I kept waiting for Catherine Zeta-Jones to freeze time and hand me a picture phone. At this point there were no words to describe how my weekend was turning out.

As Larry and I strolled over to Newberry, we had no idea what was in store for us...

More Shameless Promotion

In all my ferver over Ben Jelen and not getting my ass whooped, I failed to plug yet another sensational singer-songwriter, this one of the double X variety. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Christina Abbott!

You haven't seen her on MTV, Conan or YM. She's not quite as pretty as Ben. And she's not quite a pianist, either. But maybe you've seen her around the City. Maybe you've seen her in Connecticut (go Black Rock!) Maybe you've seen her at a gay club in Queens in one of the most awkward double blind date thing-a-ma-do-hickies of your entire life (really, I just don't want to get into it). Wherever you may or may not have seen her, you should definitely check her out. Her bluesy, folksy acoustic guitar stylings well worth your while, with or without her band.

Tuesday. May 4. Alibi Lounge. Be there.

Yellin' Fer Ben!

Every now and then I feel obliged to expose people to new things. Today, in the spirit of the Third of the Month, I'm going to expose you to the hottest new WB-themed emo pop pianist (hee hee, he said pianist) to hit the airwaves since, oh, the last WB-themed emo pop pianist. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ben Jelen!

Why should you buy his album, Give It All Away? Not because he's pretty (he is). Not because he's been featured on TRL, Carson Daly, Craig Kilborn and YM magazine (he has). Not because he's got tremendous talent writing and performing (he does). And not because he's cut a kick-ass track from Hedwig and the Angry Inch (he did). No, you should buy his album because my co-worker, Sonya, will kick the ever-loving shit out of me if I don't actively support his career and quite frankly I like my ever-loving shit exactly where it is. And at least the album is actually worth buying, unlike, say, Neon Nights, so I don't feel that much pressure to recommend it.

Chokeless Chicken

So I tried to get the chicken to celebrate the Third of the Month. He wasn't having any of that... But he did do the Moonwalk for me.

By the Power of Greyskull!

So I got into work late today because I happened to catch Masters of the Universe on HBO this morning and was sucked in. It was such a bad movie but it has that kitchy nostalgia that makes me go "awwww." And there's a stellar cast, too. Dolph Lundgren as a vaguely dim but well-cut He-Man being flogged by Star Wars style light-whips. Hot! (Mel Gibson would've been proud.) Then there's Frank Langella as Skeletor and Meg Foster as Evil-Lyn. Oh, and let's not forget about Courteney Cox. Yes, that Courteney Cox, making her motion picture debut. I wonder why nobody ever asks her about that in interviews.

I will admit, however, it brought up many memories. He-Man was in integral part of my childhood. I still have the He-Man and She-Ra Christmas Special on VHS, where two little Earth kids teach Skeletor the meaning of Christmas. I owned, I kid you not, every single He-Man action figure, vehicle and fortress, as well as the first series of She-Ra (until they got a little too girly). The first A that I got on an essay in college was about He-Man (I'd post it, but my computer died on my last week and I can't remove the Sublime CD that's stuck inside so I'm pretty much screwed).

And then, the best moment of my adolescent life was when I got to meet Skeletor. No, not the cartoon, although if I'd met a cartoon I'd probably be living a lot closer to Bellevue right about now. I met Alan Oppenheimer, who did the voice of Skeletor. When I was 18 I saw him play Cecille B. DeMille in Sunset Boulevard (with Betty Buckley) and asked him to sign my playbill as "Skeletor." Not only did he do it, but he did the Skeletor voice, unprovoked by me, and said "I'll get you He-Man" and then did the Skeletor laugh. I think I pissed my pants. Best day of my life.

Thank you, Mr. Oppenheimer, wherever you are.

From the Mouths of Babes

So I was riding the 6 train around midnight last night and there were a couple of young girls, maybe 7 or 8 years old, in their Easter best, amusing the rest of the train with their loud antics. Their young mother was sitting across from them, attempting to get them to quiet. But they were having none of that. At one point, they began to do one of those hand-clapping, rhyme games ala "Miss Lucy Had a Steamboat," etc.

It kept getting funnier and funnier as the other riders began to stifle full-on guffaws. At one point, their song went like this: "My mom drinks too much alcohol / Now she's peeing down the hall." I laughed out loud. The mother, visibly disturbed, asked through awkward laughter, "Where did you hear that?"

The girl looked her mother right in the eye and without missing a beat answered with a smile, "I made that one up myself."

Size Does Matter

Well, at least if you're a walrus. A recent study has found that mammals that live in colder climates tend to have larger baculi (penis bones) because a greater chance of insemination might provide an evolutionary advantage, as opposed to animals who live in more temperate climates and where physical prowess is a more desired trait:

Longer penis bones may ensure that the male's sperm is inserted closer to the egg, says Ferguson. So a well-hung male is more likely to succeed in becoming a father.

And it's also refreshing to see a prominent and (arguably) reputable science journal use the term "well-hung."

Go Huskies!

Being from Connecticut and having two UConn alumni for parents, I've always had a warm spot for UConn basketball, especially the women. I was senior in high school when Rebecca Lobo led the women through an amazing undefeated season and barely defeating Tennessee in one of the best women's basketball games I've ever watched. A girl I carpooled with and sat at my physics table, Kate, was a huge fan. I think she got to touch Lobo at one point and I had to hear about it for weeks. And that was back when the men hadn't won in, like, ten years or something.

But this year, to have the men and the women win back to back is just pure bliss. Connecticut's had some crappy times lately, what with the government cancelling the Comanche, Chris Dodd acting like Trent Lott and our pig-nosed, heinous governor in the dog house, it's still nice to know that we can excel in something...

A Fool And His Money...

... might be enough to bring about the apocalypse. Or something.

A floating temple of light in the sky? You know, as wacky as it sounds, I'm all for jump-starting peace in the Middle East. And if it brings about the Second Coming then at least I don't have to worry about paying back my student loans.

Happy Third of the Month!

I can never believe how fast the Third of the Month sneaks up on you. It seems like only last month it was the Third of the Month and we were all busy relishing in the beauty that is ourselves. And a lot's happened since then, most of it spendiferous. But the weather seems to have gotten a bit colder, so you probably want to try to stay warm when indulging in your wonderfulness. I indulged in my wonderfulness by bettering my personal space via fishtank cleaning. My fish seemed to have stopped croaking (he says while jinxing his pets to an early grave) and so I figured I'd treat them with another water-refreshening, a few more bubbles and a hearty extra helping of din-din.

But now I'd like to shift gears and share a little cheery, Third o' the Month story with you, something that happened to me this week. I was judging a middle school science fair and one of the darling little groups did a project on how unbelievabley filthy the streets of New York are. And as one of their sycophantic props, they were giving out moist towelettes! I was so excited to see that the youth of our nation are conscientious about sanitation and personal cleanliness. They'll be all set when they finally discover their inherent wonderfulness and can join us all in celebration.

Yet as I head off to a Third of the Month party, I entreat you all one more time to be good to yourselves, love your body and your mind and your spirit and never, ever forget that you can never go wrong with plaid.

The Bane Of The Cell Phone

If you only listened to hot Welsh actresses, you might be convinced that mobile phones are a good thing. But then you'd be wrong. They can be the source of tremendous anxiety. I entreat you to attend the tale of mobile technology gone awry...

Last night I needed to call the boy because I'd told him to meet me at my apartment at 8:00. But I realized I wasn't going to get there on time (not because I was running late or anything; I was drinking heavily at a bar and didn't want to stop). However, I'd left my cell phone at home. Now I've been seeing him for nine months. I must call him at least four or five times a week. But have I ever learned his phone number? No. I just press speed dial. So I tried to call him from a friend's phone, trying to pull his number from memory because I've seen it a bunch of times. But alas, it was all for naught. Every combination of numbers I tried was wrong. So I figured, hey, I'll call another one of my friends because someone has to have his number. But could I remember anyone else's number? Ha! The only numbers I could think of were my parents' and Pizza Park. This was not good.

But wait! I may have forgotten my cell phone but I remembered my PDA! So I scan through the address book. Is there anyone in there even remotely connected to my life? No. And why? Because everyone who is important is in my cell phone! My dermatologist? Yeah, she was in my Palm. Some guy I met at a conference (I think) last year? Uh-huh. My boss's parents' phone number in Denmark? Yeah, that one was there too. Anyone who might have the phone number I need? Nope.

I managed to get a hold of Christy who gave me Tim's number who I interrupted at work in the middle of an important project (who told me he would text it to me as soon as he could and to which I kindly had to explain to him that if I had had my phone and was able to receive a text message I wouldn't have needed to call Tim in the first place (he's British so he's not really "on the ball" all the time)) so I could get a hold of the boy and tell him I was too drunk to meet him. By the time I'd finished I was sober and pretty much ready to leave the bar.

Now if I weren't capable of programming 500 numbers into my cell phone maybe I would have memorized this fairly important phone number...

To Serve Man Is A Cookbook

So I just signed the copyright agreement for my first paper and you know what that means; I'm a legitimate, published scientist. Granted, I'm the seventh author of thirteen but I wrote a paragraph or two and generated a figure. Go me.

Next step: first author!